Honoring Over Understanding

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered on Friday, June 26, at Congregation Neveh Shalom.

There is something deeply human about wanting an explanation. We like categories. We like certainty. We like being able to answer the question, “Why?”

But Parshat Chukat begins with a mitzvah that refuses to offer one. “Zot chukat haTorah.” This is the decree of the Torah. The red heifer is Judaism’s ultimate mystery. It purifies the impure while simultaneously rendering those who perform the ritual temporarily impure. It doesn’t fit neatly into our logic. Even our greatest sages admitted they could not fully explain it.

Perhaps the Torah is teaching us something profound before it teaches us anything else: Not everything holy has to make complete sense to us. Our tradition is built not only on understanding, but on humility. There are realities that invite us to stop trying to explain and instead begin by honoring.

As we celebrate Pride Month, I find myself returning to this idea. For generations, LGBTQIA+ Jews have been asked to explain themselves. To justify who they are. To answer questions that many of us would never think to ask of someone else.

Chukat offers a different posture. What if our first response to another person’s identity wasn’t, “Help me understand”? What if it were, “Help me honor the holiness before me”? The Torah repeatedly reminds us that every human being is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God. That truth doesn’t depend on whether I fully understand another person’s experience. It depends on my willingness to recognize God’s image reflected in them.

Ironically, Chukat is often described as the portion that teaches us the limits of certainty. That may be one of the greatest spiritual gifts we can receive, because love does not require complete understanding. Respect does not require complete understanding. Dignity does not require complete understanding. Sometimes faith asks us to embrace mystery, not because mystery is frightening, but because mystery is where God so often dwells.

Our charge this week is to practice holy humility. To resist the temptation to categorize every person we meet. To honor the sacred complexity of each soul. And to remember that the most faithful response to another human being is not always explanation. Sometimes it is simply blessing.

Strawberries in Summer

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Friday, June 19.

There is something magical about the first truly good strawberry of summer. Not the pale, flavorless ones we buy in January and convince ourselves are acceptable. I mean the strawberries that arrive in June, bright red, perfectly ripe, sweet enough to make you stop mid-bite and say, “Now that tastes like summer.” 

The funny thing about strawberries is that we spend most of the year waiting for them. And when they finally arrive, we have a choice. We can savor them. Or we can immediately start wishing for something else. That tension sits at the heart of Parshat Korach. 

Our portion begins with Korach’s rebellion against Moses and Aaron. Korach gathers a coalition of dissatisfied Israelites and challenges the leadership of the community. What follows is one of the Torah’s most dramatic conflicts: accusations, power struggles, divine judgment, and ultimately a reaffirmation of Aaron’s role as High Priest through the miraculous blossoming of his staff. 

At first glance, Korach’s complaint sounds noble. “All the community is holy,” he argues. And in a sense, he is right. Every Israelite stood at Sinai. Every person possesses dignity and holiness. But the commentators note that Korach’s argument was not truly about holiness. It was about envy. He could not appreciate the role he had because he was consumed by the role he did not have. 

The rabbis teach in Pirkei Avot: “Who is rich? One who rejoices in their portion.” Korach had many gifts. He was respected, influential, and entrusted with sacred responsibilities. Yet instead of appreciating the sweetness already in his hands, he focused on what belonged to someone else. Like standing in a strawberry field and complaining that there aren’t peaches. 

Summer has a way of reminding us of this lesson. The season invites us to slow down, notice, and enjoy what is actually present. The long evenings. Time with family. A walk after dinner. A bowl of fresh berries. These moments may seem small, but they are the ingredients of a meaningful life. 

Korach teaches us what happens when dissatisfaction becomes our default setting. Aaron’s flowering staff teaches the opposite lesson: when we nurture what we have been given, life blossoms. 

As we enter these summer weeks, our challenge is simple. Notice the strawberries. Notice the blessings that have ripened quietly around you. Appreciate the people, opportunities, and moments already in your life. Because joy rarely comes from getting everything we want. More often, it comes from recognizing the sweetness that was there all along. 

Shabbat shalom. 

Give it a Rest

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Friday, June 12, 2026.

One of the strange realities of being a parent—or a rabbi—is that sometimes the reaction seems wildly out of proportion to the offense. Here’s an example that may or may not be related to my life. I’ll let you decide. A child leaves a towel on the floor, and suddenly, you’re into a whole dissertation about responsibility, respect, and what kind of person they want to become. That’s because it’s not really about the towel; it’s about taking ownership of our actions and what it means to live a less cluttered life.  

That may help us understand one of the most troubling episodes in this week’s parshah. 

Parshat Sh’lach is remembered for the story of the spies. Twelve leaders scout the Promised Land. Ten return filled with tremendous fear. The people lose faith, and an entire generation is condemned to wander in the wilderness. 

But tucked near the end of the parshah is a much smaller story. A man is found gathering wood on Shabbat. He’s brought before Moses, and God instructs that he be put to death. No question, it’s one of the Torah’s hardest passages to comprehend. Gathering sticks hardly seems deserving of such a severe punishment. 

Many commentators note that this story must be read in context. The generation has just witnessed the consequences of the spies’ lack of faith. The people are standing at a crossroads. Will they become a covenantal community or simply a collection of individuals doing whatever they please? 

The medieval commentator Ramban suggests that the wood collector acted publicly and defiantly. We’re not merely talking about someone who forgot it was Shabbat or made an innocent mistake. It was a deliberate rejection of a communal commitment. 

But I don’t think the lesson stops there. Shabbat itself was never just about rest. It was the Israelites’ weekly declaration that they were no longer slaves. In Egypt, every day was a workday. Every day was about production. Shabbat taught a revolutionary truth: your worth is not measured by what you produce. 

The wood collector’s offense was not really about sticks. The sticks were simply the symptom. The deeper issue was an outright rejection of the sacred pause that would define Jewish life. 

The punishment feels severe because the Torah is emphasizing what is at stake. If the people can’t stop, can’t pause, can’t trust that the world will continue without their labor for one day, then the covenant itself is in jeopardy. 

Our challenge today isn’t having to put off the wood gathering for Shabbat. But it’s similar. Our challenge is not answering emails at dinner, not scrolling through our phones before bed, and not convincing ourselves that everything is urgent. 

Shabbat reminds us that holiness begins when we stop. 

This week, find one moment to put down that bundle of sticks you’ve been carrying. Take a walk. Share a meal. Sit with someone you love. Breathe. Sometimes the most sacred thing we can do is nothing at all. 

Humility and Flowers

Eve Posen1 Comment

This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Friday, June 5, 2026.

Next week marks 12 years since Duncan, a 9-month-old Shiri, and I visited Portland for the first time. I’m sure Carolyn Weinstein remembers having to put Shiri’s car seat in her car so she could drive us around and give us the lay of the land. In between looking for a house and checking out what would be our new community, we snuck away to visit the International Rose Test Garden.  As an outside observer, they were magnificent.  What I did not know was how much work they require. Roses need pruning. They need attention. They need care. Left entirely to themselves, they would still flower, but not nearly as beautifully and plentifully as they do in Washington Park.

One of the surprising things about roses is that the healthiest blooms often come after a gardener cuts them back. Growth requires a kind of humility. The rose cannot become what it is meant to be if it insists on holding onto every branch.

Parshat Be’haalotecha is filled with moments that challenge our assumptions about leadership, greatness, and humility. The Israelites continue their journey through the wilderness. The menorah is lit. The Levites are consecrated. The people complain about the manna and long for Egypt. Seventy elders are appointed to help Moses carry the burden of leadership. And at the end of the parshah, Miriam and Aaron speak critically of Moses, leading to one of the Torah’s most remarkable descriptions of his character.

The Torah tells us: “Now Moses was exceedingly humble, more than any person on the face of the earth” (Numbers 12:3).

What is striking is where this verse appears. It comes not after a great triumph, but in the middle of criticism. And Moses doesn’t defend himself. He doesn’t lash out. He doesn’t demand recognition. His humility is not weakness; it’s confidence rooted in purpose, rather than ego.

Like a rose, Moses does not need every branch of self-importance to remain intact. He understands that leadership is not about being admired. It’s about serving something larger than oneself.

Humility is often misunderstood. We think it means making ourselves small. Jewish tradition disagrees. True humility means knowing exactly who you are—your gifts, your strengths, your limitations, and placing them in service of others.

The rose does not humbly apologize for being beautiful. It simply blooms.

As we move through this week, may we embrace the humility of the rose and of Moses. And supposedly his toeses. I’m sure you didn’t expect me to get through a whole drash about Moses and roses without Singing in the Rain. Anyway, may we be willing to let go of what no longer serves us. May we focus less on proving ourselves and more on growing into the people we are called to become. And may we remember that the most beautiful blossoms often emerge from hearts rooted in quiet strength and humble purpose.

We Were All At Sinai

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered for Shavuot at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Friday, May 22.

On Shavuot, we return again to Sinai. Not only to remember it, but to relive it. 

The rabbis teach that every Jewish soul—past, present, and future—stood at Sinai when Torah was given. Every one of us. The scholar and the skeptic. The deeply observant and the quietly searching. The Jew fluent in Hebrew and the one who only knows how to hum along to the melody of a prayer. We were all there. 

And that matters because Sinai was never meant to belong to only one kind of Jew. This beautiful text study reminds us that sacred space in Judaism has always wrestled with one central question: who belongs?  

One of the most striking teachings comes from Vayikra Rabbah, which describes the Temple courtyard somehow holding all of Israel at once. The midrash says it was “one of the places where a small space held a great multitude.” People stood crowded together, yet somehow there was still room for everyone. 

Clearly, this is about more than architecture; this is theology. Holiness, Judaism teaches, expands, and sacred space is meant to stretch itself to hold the fullness of the Jewish people. 

Honestly, this concept feels increasingly urgent right now when we think about the Kotel and the growing fractures within the Jewish world. The fight over the Kotel has never been only about prayer sections or who holds a Torah scroll. It has become symbolic of a much larger and more painful question: who gets counted as a legitimate Jew in the Jewish state? 

For years, many Diaspora Jews—especially Conservative, Reform, egalitarian, and pluralistic communities—have watched an Israeli government increasingly shaped by ultra-Orthodox political power make decisions that feel less about unity and more about control. The freezing of the Kotel compromise in 2017 was not simply a political maneuver. For many Jews around the world, it felt like being told “your Judaism matters less here.” 

And that heartbreak runs deep precisely because Israel and the Kotel matter so much to us. It’s devastating because Judaism keeps reminding us that at Sinai, revelation came through collective presence, not ideological uniformity. The Torah was not given only to the strictest voice in the camp. It was given to an entire people. The midrash teaches that God’s voice split into many voices and many languages so that everyone could hear Torah in a way they could receive it. Sinai was spiritually pluralistic from the very beginning. 

The Torah says, “And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” It doesn’t say “within it.” It says “among them.” Rabbi Moshe Alshekh paid close attention to this. God does not dwell primarily in buildings of wood and stone, he says, but within people themselves. The holiness of sacred space comes from the people who gather there. 

Which means when Jews are pushed away from sacred space—women carrying Torah, egalitarian families, LGBTQ Jews, Jews whose practice differs from state-sanctioned Orthodoxy—it is not only those Jews who are diminished. The holiness of the space itself is diminished. 

This is not a call for less Judaism. It is a call for a Judaism expansive enough to hold the Jewish people. Because Shavuot reminds us that Torah was given in the wilderness, in open space, where no one tribe could build walls around revelation. 

And perhaps that is our charge this year: to resist the temptation to shrink Judaism into camps of “real” and “not real,” worthy and unworthy. To insist that Jewish unity does not require sameness. To build communities and support an Israel that remembers the lesson of Sinai: that covenant was created when all of us stood there together. 

Because we were all at Sinai. And if we were all there then, every Jew deserves a place at the wall, at the table, and within the story of the Jewish people now.